


me and you, slow dancing

by smithens



Series: good love [4]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: 20th Century, 5 Times, Dancing, Growing Old Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-17 17:15:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29229078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithens/pseuds/smithens
Summary: Five more dances.
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Richard Ellis
Series: good love [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2146188
Comments: 26
Kudos: 42





	1. 1930

**Author's Note:**

> the successor to [good love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24450274), which has now been incorporated along with some other pieces of mine into [a neat little universe](https://archiveofourown.org/series/2146188). :-)

_Better at leading, aren't I?_ Richard asked, still grinning from ear to ear.

Thomas was too fond of teasing him to properly agree, though of course it was true… and having just poked fun at him for the very same, he had to fight the urge then to look down at his own feet as Richard steered them around the Maybanks' sitting room, Jack Payne warbling over the wireless... 

_Yes, Dick, you're very practised_ , he submitted. 

He was, though. He was very, very good at it, in fact. The last time Thomas had danced with somebody else leading—with another man leading—had been three years ago, and that had been different for many more reasons than he was prone to think about at the moment. 

But he was very lucky, that all of his male dancing partners were so quick on their feet.

The difference was stark enough, though, that Thomas wondered if he'd been feigning his incompetence before they'd switched.

_Danced with Princess Mary once or twice_ , replied Richard brightly.

Or maybe he was just more old-fashioned than he wanted to seem like, and these were the only dances he was any good at.

_Have you indeed!_

_Oh, plenty of times,_ he told him, _first was at the Imperial Durbar, actually, you'll remember they'd just brought me on at the Palace a few months before the coronation—they had all the ladies dressed up in silks, beads all over it, dyed in indigo and Tyrian and carmine and the like, the local fashion, they had to hold up their trains like in the Regency, and one of the footmen–not me, mind, another one, thank Heaven, halfway through a mazurka he tripped over the Duchess of Hatherleigh's saree..._

Though he wouldn't always admit it, Thomas loved him the most when he was being absolutely ridiculous.

He let him ramble on about the dreadful tear and the scramble to find a lady's maid because of course Miss Hatherleigh had been taken poorly that afternoon, was the humidity, they call it an Indian summer for a reason, and on and on, and when the time came, _and that, Mr Barrow, is how I got my first promotion,_ he asked, _what, really?_ playing along. Richard grinned, pressed his hand; Thomas took it as the instruction it was and let him spin them around.

_No,_ answered Richard, laughing, giddy; he broke the step to knock their heads together. As Thomas stumbled, still dizzy, he wrapped his arm all the way round his waist and tugged until they were chest to chest, his fingers drawing up to slip beneath the y-strap of his braces; he ought to have scolded him but all he could do was laugh along and feel thrilled. The tune from the dance band over the air didn't slow but they did, rocking back and forth. Floating, it felt like. _No, there was no servants' ball at the Durbar… and besides that they didn't bring the children along, Her Royal Highness wasn't even of age 'til about when the war began—she'd've been about fourteen, then?_

He'd forgotten that that was how the story had started.

_But after?_

They did have servants' balls in the Royal Household, even if they (understandably) didn't bother having them in India.

_Once or twice a year since about 1919._

Smug.

_She only gives me the time of day up at Balmoral,_ Richard joked, _so it's mostly reeling,_ (is it now, Thomas thought), _but it has been the Foxtrot, few times—not_ this _foxtrot, of course._

_Of course,_ Thomas echoed.

What they were doing now couldn't really have been called a Foxtrot by anybody familiar with the term: it was just swaying, really. Embracing, but vertical. Thomas didn't think he'd done anything like it before, not purposefully. And the band was slowing down, too, the crooning had stopped... 

As if to emphasise his earlier point, Richard unlaced their fingers and circled his other arm round his chest, too, dropping his hand to his waist… then to his hip… then to his backside...

For the first time in months Thomas felt young, excited and exciting all at once, but that didn't change the fact that he had no idea what to do with his arms. _Are you sure this is still a Foxtrot?_ he teased.

_It's something better, actually._

_Don't know if I've seen much proof of that._

_I didn't say you'd see it,_ Richard countered, lips right up to his ear. He kissed him there, and Thomas shivered. He'd worked up a sweat; they both had. _But you feel it, don't you?_

Indeed he did.

_Keep your hands to yourself, Mr Ellis, unless you'd like to put your money where your mouth is._

Richard laughed. _I thought you'd never ask._


	2. 1936

_Sorry we couldn't be in there with the rest of them,_ said Thomas, not for the first time.

_Neither you nor I have any control over that, Thomas._

_Well, even so–_

_But I've got you all to myself out here,_ firmly, _and that's all I need to be happy._

Thomas felt very suddenly like he could cry.

 _Besides,_ Richard added, _I've had more than my fair share of servants' balls, in my day._

_Yeah, yeah, you've seen the greatest houses in all the land and danced at them, too–_

_–so you'll forgive me for saying I can't imagine Downton's would have much to impress me save its butler._

Naturally, earlier in the night Richard had danced with just about every woman within a mile of Downton and charmed them all into the bargain, even Miss Caroline, who usually was very hard to impress… for the elder crowd, he supposed the black armband must've helped, added some sympathy. It was still something of a shock to him that he'd been allowed to come over for it, let alone actually show up in the hall, let alone lay a finger on the ladies of the house… even after it had already happened Thomas's nerves were through the roof. He never wanted to ask anything like that of Lady Mary ever again.

 _And seeing as I've got_ you _right here…_

 _I'll forgive you,_ Thomas told him, swallowing back the lump in his throat because he hadn't wanted it there in the first place, _but only 'cause you added that bit._

Even this late into winter the kitchen courtyard was bloody freezing. One would've hoped that postponing the party this far out might lend itself to better weather, though usually that only mattered in terms of brief smoking breaks for a chance alone, not an extended attempt at having something he ordinarily wasn't allowed. But when all was said and done this was their only chance at privacy, so here they were in their nice suits, bundled up in winter coats, gloves, scarves… He had on a scarf from Richard, in fact, one he'd given him eight years ago now and that he still brought out every winter without fail. He'd given him other gifts since then, of course, things and experiences and people alike, but this one held a special place in his heart, just like the crescent moon fob he always kept on his person.

They didn't have any music, but, soppy though it was, they did have each other, so they could waltz around like they were twenty years younger and that was still in style.

(Not that either of them had been dancing much twenty years prior.)

All he'd ever needed was a chance to be sentimental and somebody to be sentimental about, and now he was a big softie.

 _Feel sometimes as if I've grown older in a handful of months than in the last twenty years,_ Richard said, thinking aloud.

 _Are you pleased?_ Thomas asked. _To be done with service?_

Richard took his time in answering. Thomas slowed them down, gave him the chance to think without worrying about his feet.

Without music they could go at their own pace, and only theirs, and they'd always be on time.

_To be done with service, yeah._

But not with the circumstances.

If he were perfectly honest, Thomas had never had much attachment to the monarchy, and he'd thought Richard hadn't, either, the way he liked to talk—but it was different, when you saw the king as a proper person instead of some overbearing figure in a palace far away whose voice sometimes crackled over the wireless. When you drew back his curtains every morning and laid out his shoes and polished his medals and brought him up his tea.

He wondered, actually, if maybe Richard had surprised himself with just how badly he was taking it, how difficult it was for him.

_But I didn't have a choice in the matter, did I?_

Thomas shook his head. _I know it's been hard for you._

Naturally he took offense to that. 

_Been hard for the Commonwealth and Empire, given who's taken his place,_ he returned. It was a valiant effort at a joke, and maybe it would have worked, if Thomas hadn't known him so well.

_You're allowed to grieve._

You worked some place thirty years you got attached, plain and simple. Didn't matter whom for or whom with.

_Won't be surprised if Miller offs himself, the way he's carrying on; you'd think it were his own father..._

_That's not funny._

Richard met his eyes. _It isn't,_ he said.

_Are you going to cry?_

_No,_ Richard answered. It was always true when he said it, but his voice was tight all the same. _No, just falling into a bit of a rut, I suppose—mind if we switch?_

He'd always been better at changing the subject than Thomas was.

_I'm all yours._

So they did.

 _Besides,_ Richard said lightly, setting his hand at Thomas's back with a flourish, _every cloud has a silver lining, doesn't it?_

Thomas had known this was coming. 

He'd also known that it was going to be a test: that they both knew the score, and he was going to go back on his word because he was too much a coward to take the next step.

He hadn't thought it would be so soon, was all.

But what he'd thought in the past didn't matter anymore, now that it had already happened and he was still dragging his feet.

Figuratively, not literally, though Richard seemed to be of a mind to go much, much slower than they were going before.

 _Eventually,_ he said. Now it was his turn to get all choked up.

 _You're not ready to leave Downton, are you,_ said Richard.

It wasn't a question, no matter what words he'd stuck at the end of it.

 _I'm not_ , Thomas murmured.

_Do you know when you will be?_

He shook his head.

When Richard kissed his temple his lips were frozen and it made him wince, but despite that it wasn't unpleasant… Thomas crossed his arms over Richard's back and clung, nestling his face against his neck and collar, breathing in the scent of his overcoat, the fringe of his scarf tickling his nose.

 _I'm sorry,_ he said.

Richard held him still tighter.

This wasn't really dancing anymore. Just hugging, and shifting their weight, Richard rocking them back and forth.

 _Don't be sorry,_ Richard said. _Take your time._

_You're very good to me, you know that?_

_I do._

Thomas choked on a laugh; Richard laughed, too.

 _And I'm happy to wait for you, Thomas,_ he went on, gentle. Tender, even. _Long as it takes, I'm happy to wait._


	3. 1941

In years before evenings like this had always took place with the curtains drawn, but these days it was different.

For a start, these were their _own_ curtains; every night they blocked up the gaps and masked over the windows on their own. An air raid warden had been round once, for the neighbours, and that was quite enough—by no means did any of them need strangers poking about in their things, checking the shutters, sticking their noses in the bedrooms for the sake of it.

He still hadn't got used to it.

Thomas wondered sometimes if his moving to London of all places just around the time everybody knew the whole world was going to go at it again was evidence at last that his mind was leaving him… What else could he have done, though? Let a house in the village and lived off the Crawleys' meagre attempt at a pension for the rest of his life, lonely, trapped, and grieving?

Downton may've been no more but that didn't mean he had to be, too… and he'd've worried, elsewise. 

By God would he have worried.

He had greater things to worry about now, of course, more personal, more frightening, more dangerous ones. But even if everything was about to change for the worse at least he'd had three years as happy as anyone could possibly be in wartime.

 _Oh, I like this one,_ exclaimed Harold, jumping to his feet with energy that belied his age. He grabbed Whitney by the wrist and pulled him up off the floor with him.

Annoying that they were both years older than him and twice as agile. He used to be spry like that.

 _He likes_ every _one,_ Whitney drawled, but no matter how much he liked to pretend he was haughty and above it all (you could throw every Royal Household employee into that bucket) everybody in the room knew he'd take the moon down if it'd make Harold smile.

And then Thomas would have to go and put it back up, of course, agile or not, because it would upset Richard quite a bit if he looked up at night and it weren't where he expected it to be.

 _Not_ every _one,_ Harold protested.

 _Every one on_ this _programme–_

 _It's a very nice programme,_ Bea said. _How about it, George?_

George said nothing, but hopped off the arm of the sofa and shrugged out of her cardigan, which set everybody else in motion.

Thus began the process of pushing the tea table out of the way, straightening out the rug, gathering up stray books and mugs and Dottie's uniform cap, which absolutely should not have been on the floor to begin with, bloody hell she was untidy… Briefly Thomas was reminded of Downton before a holiday, or indeed before a ball.

Beside him Richard glanced over with raised eyebrows and tilted his head toward the centre of the room. Thomas pretended he couldn't see it. Either he was going to be wooed or he was going to be strong-armed, but he wasn't going to join in of his own accord, not tonight.

He stuck his stockinged feet in Richard's lap, instead.

Richard rolled his eyes and sighed very dramatically but submitted to rubbing his ankles, smiling all the same. (Strong-armed, then, probably, Thomas thought, he'd've been more enthusiastic if he was of a mind to seduce him.)

If the man hadn't insisted on doing everything like normal til they couldn't anymore to the point of having a shouting match about it Thomas would've been waiting on him hand and foot, doing everything he asked, coddling and caring and hovering. As it was, though, there had indeed been a shouting match, and besides that Thomas had spent the last going-on-fifteen-years giving what probably counted as professional foot massages, something he'd thought he'd given up for good back when the last war was done. So it was only fair.

A cautious peek over at him confirmed that Richard knew exactly what he was doing and was perfectly happy about it.

If he'd thought playing hard to get was thrilling in his youth, it was even better, so much better, now that he always knew he would indeed be 'got' in the end, and that it was good fun for all involved.

So they sat on the sofa and watched as everybody puttered around, laughing and chatting, their shadows long on the walls in the dim gold light… someday the city would be lit up again and they wouldn't have to do it like this anymore, with the lamps put as far from the wall as possible and shaded over, too, every door and window padded up, because you couldn't take a single risk when the house was full of people who could not afford to get caught in each other's arms or beds.

But if they didn't have nights like this they'd all go mad.

According to the B.B.C. the music was new, but you wouldn't have known it from looking at these people's legs...

 _Didn't take this lot to be so old-fashioned,_ Thomas commented.

_This is modern!_

He laughed. _Twenty years ago it was awfully scandalous, yes..._

Richard pushed his legs out of his lap, took him by his elbow and hauled him to his feet, just as Thomas had hoped he might. _Have you been keeping up with the times without me, Mr Ellis?_

That was as close to wooed as he was going to get with the whole rest of the house and then some in the same room, he supposed. _Guess you'll find out,_ Thomas replied.

The hand on his shoulder was unexpected but not unwelcome.

The thing was, you couldn't really show off the modern steps with a partner who hadn't bothered to learn them, which meant that he and Richard had a tango and then Thomas and Bea had to take it upon themselves to demonstrate what the kids were up to these days, because apparently she'd had the same problem he had.

He let her take charge, though. No point being normal about it.

Nobody seemed to want to bother trying on their own, though, so he found himself back in Richard's arms eventually, slow dancing, swaying. Nothing modern about it except for how they were two men with their chests together and their hands in places that would not be acceptable elsewhere.

 _I don't want you to go,_ Thomas said into Richard's neck.

 _You'll manage,_ Richard told him, and without skipping a beat, too.

_I know I'll manage; that doesn't mean I'll like it._

_You'll manage,_ he repeated. _I'll write to you, it'll be just like the old days–_

 _You weren't_ at war _in the old days,_ Thomas snapped.

It was one of those unfortunate times when everybody shut up just when you said something you didn't want people to hear. The staring—the staring, and the pointedly-not-staring—made his face feel hot and so he made no objection when Richard lead him out of the parlour and up the stairs to their bedroom.

 _We're getting to be quite the spectacle,_ he said after the door was shut, his voice all light as if all it would take to make it better was the right tone, the right rhythm. If that were true he wouldn't have got upset downstairs.

Sitting on their bed in pitch black was apparently all Thomas had needed for the tears to start rolling down his cheeks.

 _We've talked about this,_ Richard added, because of course he hadn't noticed from where he was standing. _Come on, darling, don't let's make this harder than it has to be._

Thomas couldn't think of anything polite to say to that.

_They're not sending me to Singapore; I'll still be in England–_

_–you'll be on English waters, Dick, that's not the same,_ it had to be dozens if not hundreds if not thousands of times more dangerous, and he wouldn't be able to write as often and he wouldn't be able to come back home as often, neither, so fucking forgive him if he worried–

 _Shhh, Thomas,_ Richard said, and he found him in the dark as he always did and wrapped his arms around him even knowing he was going to sob into his chest because he loved him enough not to care, _shhh, love._

There wasn't anything either of them could do to make it better, but being held was enough for now. Richard rubbed circles into his back and murmured sweet things into his ear until he stopped feeling like a helpless and embarrassing child, until the tears stopped. _Sorry,_ he mumbled, uncomfortably aware of his wet cheeks and the damp spot on Richard's jumper.

His throat was still raw.

_No need._

_Should be putting on a happy face,_ Thomas said, _you're the one who's leaving._

_And you're the one being left, Thomas, so I think you've got the right to have feelings._

As long as he didn't have them in front of other people like he kept doing.

_Couldn't you've been born earlier?_

Richard laughed, though it was more of an exhale than a proper guffaw. _I like being the younger one,_ he teased.

_Worse luck._

When they went back downstairs later enough time had passed that the programme on the wireless had changed. Nobody paid them much attention.

At times like these his mind always went back to those conversations they'd had when Thomas was finally ready to put Downton behind him—would they go to York, would they go to Manchester, was he sure about London, should they try things out just themselves or would he like to join the party.

In the end the decision had been easy. Loneliness had never suited him, after all. Maybe that was why he'd clung to service for as long as he had. It made sense. He didn't know how he'd have done if they were on their own, especially not now that Richard wasn't going to be around anymore.

He'd have _managed,_ just like he was going to manage now, but he couldn't imagine how he'd be feeling if the months ahead were to be spent in an empty flat, moping about and missing him, powerless in the face of something monstrous.

If it had to happen, this was the best way.

After the clock struck midnight the parlour became a cacophony of _be careful_ and _have you got a torch_ and _you know where to duck in, don't you_ and _it's just a few blocks, Harold, dear_ and _don't open the door just yet,_ the same song and dance that went on every half-day, every scrap of leave, every night off since the real thing had started.

He was going to be part of it, soon, and he really, desperately didn't want to be.

Richard wrapped his arms around his chest from behind and squeezed. His lips were right up at his ear, but he didn't say anything, only kissed him.


	4. 1946

_Mr Barrow?_

The voice made Thomas trip. Richard caught him and turned it into a stupid dip that he was unprepared for, resulting in him doubtless looking more foolish than he would have done if he'd been allowed to right himself on his bloody own.

From how he was laughing at him (not loud but certainly enthusiastic) as he stood up straight again, embarrassing him was probably the point.

Drinking the way he had been was fun right up til exactly this moment.

And whoever'd spoken–

 _Miss Pelham_ , he spluttered, distancing himself from Richard on instinct, but he yanked him back by the elbow and put his arm round his waist instead of letting him, the bastard.

 _It_ is _you!_

The three words were the loudest thing he could remember having heard from her in a very long time… but he'd thought much the same thing, hearing that voice and then seeing that mop of curly hair. 

If in a different sort of tone, because it had in fact been a very long time.

Thomas didn't know what to say that wasn't what-on-earth-are-you-doing-here so he kept his mouth shut.

Marigold rocked back and forth from her heels to her toes, clearly about as lost as he was—probably she hadn't quite thought through what would happen after she said hello. 

Soon enough she was rescued from opening and closing her mouth by a woman—grey-haired, dressed up in a slinky, current sort of gown—taking up her arm. By Thomas's appraisal she was nearer to their age than to hers and almost certainly in the wrong direction. Like mother, like daughter _,_ he supposed, if you thought back to before the girl in front of him had even been in the picture.

That in mind, he had to wonder how much Lady Hexham knew about this. If she knew about any of it at all.

 _Well,_ Thomas said.

Richard looked more amused than he'd seen him in weeks.

 _This is Dorothy,_ murmured Marigold. Even now—at a party like this _;_ dressed up in a suit (jacket, ladies' blouse, and what looked to him more like slacks than trousers, though where her grandmothers were concerned he was sure that didn't change much); on the arm of another woman—she was still the sort of person you had to lean in close to… but Thomas had never minded that. _Dorothy Vaughan. Dorothy, this is Mr Barrow, he was—I knew him when I was young._

Far from it, in fact.

_–and, his friend is–_

_Mr–_

_Mr Ellis, right?_

_Right,_ Richard said immediately, grinning wide same as always, not a bit off his guard. He let go of Thomas's arm to gesture. _Last time I saw you, you were but this high…_

 _I have a good memory_ , said Marigold shyly.

Apparently so.

 _Well, I expect I speak for both of us when I say it's good to see you again—and of course it's a pleasure to meet you, Ms Vaughan_.

Of-course-it's-a-pleasure-to-meet-you… There he went again putting on hats. Himself, Thomas preferred to greet people in a more down-to-Earth fashion and add to that always forgot you could sometimes get away with saying _Ms_ now. Meanwhile Richard seemed to make a point of using it every chance he got.

It was sweet, honestly.

How lucky was he that he'd made his life with the only man alive who could make just about any awkward situation easy.

As it happened they apparently had met some place before, and Ms Dorothy Vaughan was a good enough person to take the lie for what it was and leave them some privacy. That was a point in her favour, though Thomas was going to judge her harshly even so.

Marigold watched them go with wide eyes.

_...do Lord and Lady Hexham know you're out and about in trousers on a Tuesday?_

It might have been too close to the mark for somebody shy as she was, but she only giggled and side-stepped the question. _I'm trying it out_ , she said, _for special occasions—do you like it?_

 _Very dashing_ , he told her, quite sincerely, but he still couldn't believe…

 _Maybe I shouldn't have…?_ Marigold started, wide-eyed. And though she didn't manage to finish her sentence, he knew exactly what she meant. Perceptive as ever. Sensitive, that one, they'd always said.

Where the girls were concerned they'd never understood each other quite like him and Miss Branson, especially once she'd left Downton, but that wasn't saying much, and here the proof was right before him. Years out and he could still tell what's in her head, and her in his… they hadn't lost it, no matter how far he is from Downton or Brancaster or wherever. Silly, that he ever worried about such things, but he was old enough now he could determine what had been just the job and what had been something more.

Obviously the children of the Crawley daughters (and he did desperately want to know if she'd been told by now just how much she was one of them or if they'd gone and left it up in the air since the adoption) fell into the latter bucket.

 _No_ , Thomas said, firm as he could be without raising his voice, as he could be when talking to somebody he liked more than most people he'd ever met. _No, you're always– you're always welcome_.

_But I interrupted you._

_Even if you're interrupting, you're welcome, Miss Pelham_.

She nodded, eyes downcast, her two front teeth tugging at her lip. He could remember when the first one had fallen out of her mouth like it happened yesterday. The second had been knocked out by accident, loose though it was. A dark day in the nursery.

It hadn't been the pain that bothered her but the fact that it hadn't done it on its own. A whole load of emotions over a baby tooth that was going to fall out shortly anyway.

God, that had been so long ago. Reminded him how old he was getting to be.

 _You remember that, all right?_ he told her once it became clear she hadn't got the nerve to say anything more aloud. _You're a welcome interruption._

 _A welcome interruption_ , she repeated.

She'd grown up into a very lovely person, he decided, taste in women notwithstanding, and the decision was only reinforced by what followed: _would you dance with me, Mr Barrow?_

 _I don't know that that's the sort of dancing people like to do here,_ he quipped, _but yes, of course I will..._ She beamed. _Though, since_ you _were the one to_ ask…

Perhaps it shouldn't have, but it surprised him that Marigold wasn't used to leading—one, she was literally in trousers, and two, in his experience women tended to be more practised in that, given how hard it could be to find the right sort of man at a social function. In general, but especially at times like now. 

There was a reason so many of the blokes out tonight were in their forties at best.

Nevertheless she carried herself well.

The last time she'd been his dancing partner she was sixteen and still in all respects a child and he'd left Downton for good shortly after, but the years in between—and he'd seen her once or twice, since he'd gone, probably just once actually—had given her a grace she'd never had as a girl, even if the diffidence seemed there to stay.

They chatted about his life a bit and hers lots: her family (yes, she knew now), her romances, her novel (still in progress), her work with the Salvationists in the war, the living she now earned penning columns and drafting up memoirs for people like soldiers and servants who couldn't string a proper sentence together to save their lives.

When the music changed they excused themselves from the floor.

Richard caught his eye from across the room, because he always could.

 _I'm very happy for you,_ Thomas told her. _Very, very happy—but you look after yourself, all right? You're not often in London, are you?_

 _No, I'm in Beadnell, most of the time—it's close_ enough _to Brancaster, but there's nobody who lives there, really, and it's much better for writing, being alone, I– I have a cottage– my own, just me. Dorothy lives here._

She was blushing.

Probably she hadn't actually stopped and he was just now noticing it again.

_Have you got a telephone in that cottage of yours?_

Marigold nodded.

_Well, would you like our number?_

_Oh, I…_ Floundering again. _Very much._

 _You do know how to place a trunk call, don't you?_ he teased.

_Yes, Mr Barrow, I know how to place a trunk call…_

So he begged a pen off a stranger, and when it turned out neither of them had any bits of paper in their pockets worth writing on (strange, for an author) she pushed up her sleeves and offered her wrist.

Lucky he hadn't borrowed a pencil.

It turned out she and her cradle-snatcher had another party to go to, after, somewhere significantly classier and more moneyed than this one he was sure, but before she darted off she gave him a kiss on the cheek, which made up for it.

 _She's too old for her,_ Thomas said later as he and Richard made their way to the door. _It won't last._

Richard raised his eyebrows but said nothing until they were sorting through hats and coats in the mudroom—well, he was sorting; Richard was just standing around. _Emma and Dorothy are a bit apart, aren't they, and they've done all right for themselves,_ he replied.

 _First of all, Emma's our age and Dottie's thirty-five, so that's different; second of all, she's only been taking her out a few months—anyway, I gave her our telephone number, so when she rings us up in the middle of the night crying her eyes out 'cause_ Ms Vaughan _found somebody even younger and already published…_

 _...I'll be sure to be sympathetic,_ Richard laughed.

Thomas managed at last to pull their coats out of the heap. _You don't know how to be anything else,_ he told him.


	5. 1953

_Let your hair down,_ Richard wheedled, _it's a special occasion._

_Her Majesty will be very appreciative of our shag in her honour, I'm sure._

By way of an answer Richard laughed harder than Thomas had seen him do in weeks, loud, til he was red in the face and hiccoughing. He hadn't even had anything to drink. _Was it that funny?_ Thomas asked, pointedly. Really he was just grumpy 'cause he hadn't heard the double entendre til well after the words were out of his mouth. _I didn't think it was that funny._

After he'd caught his breath and taken a sip of his cold-by-now tea, Richard pecked him on the lips instead of giving him a proper answer. _We can take it slow,_ he said.

_Which 'it' are we going for again?_ Thomas asked, but he relented.

Despite how it'd ended hours ago there wasn't a station to be found on the portable that was broadcasting anything else but news about the coronation. Given they'd come all the way out here to escape that and this was the only electric appliance to be had in probably a mile's radius, that meant they'd just have to treat themselves to the sound of nothing.

'Nothing' being another word for Richard Ellis trying his hand at Judy Garland even when it had been made clear a very long time ago that he did not have sufficient falsetto to do her any justice. If he went for the falsetto, of course, which he only ever did when he meant to be a nuisance... Now he was just meaning to be a romantic.

And succeeding, of course.

In his own range he was very, very romantic.

_...why does it happen, dear, only with you?_

Thomas feigned protest all the same: _I'm much too old for this,_ he said, but pretending not to be interested in things when he was was the real thing he was too old for, and his feet betrayed his enthusiasm.

_No, you're not—two cheeks together can be..._

_No, I'm not,_ he murmured.

It wasn't as easy as it would have been, once, but that didn't mean it was difficult. The tune wasn't quick (Richard did love a good ballad) and soon enough nor were their steps—they kept close, cheeks-together, bringing the lyrics to life. 

Richard fell into humming after a little while, and Thomas joined in when he was moved to. Soon whatever song it was was unrecognisable and something only theirs.

Before long the dance turned into something else, too, standing in place, moving more in spirit than in body, just holding each other.

 _Thanks for indulging me,_ right into his ear, whispered.

 _Well, we are in the middle of nowhere,_ Thomas replied, _there's nobody else around to do it._

 _We should've taken more advantage of this place back when you were singing my praises every night,_ teased Richard.

Thomas squirmed out of his arms to glare at him, but he was right, of course… All he really remembered about the whole year of 1928 was that he and Richard had met up three times and spent just about every hour of each in bed, tangled up and trying to keep their mouths shut.

Him, especially, trying to keep his mouth shut, which had never been a problem before Mr Richard Ellis came along with his very adept hands and very nice face.

That, he supposed, was what happened when you met somebody you wanted to have twice in a row without being able to do it either time.

 _You can use your imagination this evening,_ Thomas told him. Because for better or worse, keeping his mouth shut wasn't a problem anymore.

_Does this mean you're giving me the cold shoulder tonight?_

_Well, I'll give you my_ bare _shoulder._

Neither of them would know its temperature until they were in bed together, though.

Richard grinned. _That'll do._


End file.
